You’ll note that my supposedly regular Marathon Mondays petered out recently.

Big surprise.

I cannot seem to keep up any particular practice on this blog.  
(I also find it difficult to follow the arrows in parking lots.)

Still, the ill-fated series deserves, at least, a wrap up.
And this is that:

A marathon is a long, hard slog.
Not 26.2 miles but actually four months and hundreds of miles.
Many in the dark, many alone, some with sore feet and a head cold.
Others, bright, crisp and welcome.

It’s kind of a crazy thing to do, really.
Plenty of people make a point of saying so and I halfway agree.

But people run marathons for a million and one reasons — to get fit, prove a point, raise money, beat odds.
To pound good intentions into the planet, one footfall at a time.

My reasons were those and others.
Some of them, quite frankly, got lost in the shuffle.
(Which, incidentally, is what the last three miles of the race looked and felt like.)

In the end, I’m less concerned with why I ran and more concerned with being grateful.
To have been on the journey — mind games, missed sleep, Gu and all.
To have had the enduring companionship of my running partners, near and far.
To have made it to the starting line.
To have made it to the finish line.
To have looked all sorts of stuff in the face along the way.

I had a list in my zippered pocket of 26 people to think about during the race on Sunday.
And what was most amazing to me was how often I thought, as I looked at the next name, "She’s been running quite the marathon herself…" or "He survived a grueling race (or didn’t)…"

It made me feel not at all alone as I ran, but more importantly it stepped me outside of myself with the very visceral reminder that we are all on our own long journeys… often in the dark, frequently alone, with sore feet and head colds.

I’m moved beyond measure when I think of what each good person on this planet does in crawling out of bed in the morning and moving forward. Fueled by need or passion, order or desire.

Compared to all that, a marathon’s a jog in the park.

So, on that note, I’m signing off for the night, wishing each of you many miles of bright, crisp and welcome…

Namaste.

Today is Lincoln’s Birthday.

And Darwin’s.

It’s also, according to one of my astrologically-minded friends, the true dawning of the age of Aquarius.
Which seems like kind of a big deal.

But at my house, the day belongs to Small One, who’s turning eight.

When she was born, a whole bunch of Februarys ago, she was a sleepy baby.

Quiet.

Dreamy.

Serene.

That lasted for about two weeks.

Since then we’ve had a force of nature on our hands.

This is the child who was running at 10 months old and reading before we taught her.

This is the child who has knocked out teeth and suffered stitches.

This is the child whose perfect comic pitch brings us to our knees.

She is larger than life, quicker than a firecracker and electric-bright.

There’s no way to sum up the love we feel for our children.

Especially if we try to avoid the clichés.

So I won’t try.

Instead, suffice it to say that I’m grateful – every day – that this vivid and spirited child gets to live with us, here in our lives. Tucked in that bunkbed, right beneath her big sister. To my right at the dinner table. In my lap, still, when we read aloud at night.

Sometimes I cannot believe my good fortune.

My cup’s been running over since she arrived…

Happy Birthday, bunny….

The day after John Updike died, Terry Gross played a bunch of old interviews with him on Fresh Air.

They’re pretty charming.
You should give ’em a listen.

In one of them, they were discussing age, and how, each day, we’re older than we’ve ever been before.
And how, as writers, our job is to trailblaze and then report back to those younger than us about we find.

I think he meant: with the insights and wisdom gleaned through age.
But he was too modest to actually say that.

Anyway, I was thinking about how his statement applied — or didn’t — when you’re writing for children, be they 3 or 13.

When I’m feeling philosophical about my work, I say that I’m trying to be present to the perspective of children, and to articulate that perspective, and to, thus, value and validate it.

I think it may be the opposite of trailblazing and reporting back.

I think for me (at the risk of sounding wildly therapeutic), it’s more about trying to access the parts of my heart, mind and memory that are five or nine or so — that see the world the way I did at five or nine or so — and to love those parts up a little bit.

And, in so doing, loving up the hearts and minds of the five- or nine-year-olds who might read my books.

There are a whole heap of problems with this assessment.
For one thing, there is no single "perspective of children".
And for another, only a narcissist would think that any five-year-old today would want or need exactly what I wanted or needed at five.

Still.

I guess what I’m getting at is that sometimes, instead of trying to leverage the insights and wisdom that might be gleaned through age, maybe the best I can do is get out of my own way and fall back, awash, into the thrumming emotions of childhood.

What do you think?
 

I wasn’t gonna post about this because I want to get my grubby little paws on the grand prize but, aw heck, here you go:

The eternally tantalizing author and blogger extrordinaire Cynthia Leitich Smith is celebrating the debut of ETERNAL with a big ol’ giveaway!

You have until tonight at midnight to win books, t-shirts (designed by the equally eternally tantalizing Gene Brenek) and much, much more.

Make haste, people!!!

We have a neighbor who keeps his eye on the International Space Station.

Whenever it’s going to be visable from our neck of the woods, he gathers us all in the street and we watch as it hurtles through space at 17,000 miles an hour.

I would’ve really loved to be an astronaut.
Y’know, if I wasn’t what I am.

I suspect I’d have needed to possess more scientific leanings rather than poetic, though, if I were to train without gravity and fly a space shuttle and do space walks to repair electronic heat shields, etc. etc.

But there is a beautiful intersection of science and poetry.
At every level — from the cellular to the celestial.
And I feel it when I stand in the middle of my street, head craned up in wonder.

In keeping with this thought, a gift poem from the very clever and incredibly prolific J. Patrick Lewis.
Thank you, Mr. Lewis, for sharing this with Poetry Friday fans!

The Aged Sun

(This poem previously published in POEMS FOR TEACHING IN THE CONTENT AREAS, Scholastic Teaching Resources, 2007. All rights J. Patrick Lewis)

Did ya’ll read that article in the New York Times Magazine last weekend, the one about online reading sites for kids?

The author of Click and Jane argues that the benefit of sites like Starfall and One More Story is that a three-year-old can read (sort of) the books (not really) himself — and, thus, "learn to enrich his solitude".

Unlike real books which, Virginia Heffernan says, "are for when he feels snuggly."

Well.
God forbid!

Look, I’m all for raising human beings who know how to be alone and at ease, who even relish their solitude.
And literacy’s one great way to encourage and access that comfort and joy.

But really?

We need to encourage three-year-olds to develop this independence through online "reading" rather than falling into that lazy, old, snuggly pleasure of curling up with your mama and a bunch of books?

Really?

In case I haven’t made myself clear yet, I don’t think so. 

Since when does "enriched solitude" have to be cold, mechanical and digitized?

I’m 41 (and very comfortable being alone) and books are still a snuggly pleasure for me. Sometimes curled up with my kids, sometimes next to my husband in bed at night, and often alone, in a hot bath or on a blanket in the sun. Reading is a cozy and intimate affair, whether you’re ’round a rug in a classroom, or lined up on the couch as a family, or alone, and I don’t need some website cutting out the snuggles for me, thank you very much.

And I really don’t think we ought to be in the business of cutting them out of children’s lives, either.

Already kids compete for our attention with the endless chatter of email and cell phones and television, not to mention old-fashioned things, like chores, work and siblings. If we go to these lengths to emphasize independence over connectivity, we’re going to lose a lot more than the dog-eared stack of books on the coffee table. If we can’t offer enough undivided attention to get through a few pages a day — whether Lily’s Purple Plastic Purse or The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe — then we’re not only saying to kids that we don’t value books, we’re saying we don’t value you! 

This is not my cry to ban all computers, unplug the electric lights and homeschool your kids in raising chickens and making cheese. You can do all that if you want, but I’m fine with the occasional electronic birthday invitation, YouTube video, and even a dang Kindle if you really want one.

Just let’s not pretend that that’s the same good stuff we get when snuggled up with a book — the paper and cardboard kind — and the people we love.

‘Cause it’s not.

School’s back in session and one of the courses I’m teaching this time around is entirely virtual.

As in, all online.

It’s an odd thing, never to meet your students face-to-face.

I still have a very tangible (old-fashioned?) image of what a class is. Not old-fashioned as in I-stand-up-front-and-lecture-ad-nauseum-as-my-students-use-toothpicks-to-try-to-stay-awake, but just that we’re a bunch of living, breathing bodies come together to talk, listen and learn together.

So, the breathing part kind of gets lost online, y’know?

And to counter that, I try to soak up each student’s sensibilities early on.
I try to discover what they like to read, what inspires them, what they aspire to.

This week there’ve been a broad array of poets discussed.
It tickles and inspires me, the wealth of work that’s out there.
And that people find, to read and love.
Everyone from Ovid to Mary Oliver, from Whitman to Patchen.

I thought I’d share one of the latter poem’s here.
It’s from a site called Poets Against War, where you’ll find all kinds of good stuff, including this:

Death Will Amuse Them
— Kenneth Patchen

A little girl was given a new toy
That needed no winding and would never run down
As even the best of everything will

I like to think I know people a bit better once I know what they’re reading. You?

Yesterday I received a big bundle of thank you notes from the students I worked with earlier this month.

It is always a treat to hear from kids, especially if they’ve been given a little leeway in terms of what to write. Which was obviously true in this case.

Here are some of my favorites:

Dear, Liz Scanlon
Thank you for coming to my school , I realy liked it espeshly the lie poum.
So I made you a poum!
ps I dount know how to speell poum!
Roses are red
Vilets are blue
Wich is the best?
Ofcores you!
Justin

Don’t they just tickle?
Reading letters like these is one of the surest ways to laugh and be deeply moved all in the same five minutes.
Sincerely.

Currently, my eldest is reading Harry Potter.
My youngest is reading The Hobbit.
Our read-aloud is Prince Caspian.
And I’m into New Moon.

We’re getting Gandalf and Trumpkin mixed up over here.
And I’m considering playing Quidditch with Edward.
For real.

The American Library Association recognized some mighty fine books this morning, not the least of which is Marla Frazee’s A Couple of Boys Have the Best Week Ever — a 2009 Caldecott Honor Award winner.

Granted, I’m already inclined to be wooed by her work because Marla is a dear friend and personal illustrator of my next picture book, but truly folks…

A Couple of Boys is a tender, funny, empathic, intimate snapshot of boyhood and Marla is one deserving winner.

Raising my glass…